I swaggered into Opeka's square, the morning buzz alive with my latest masterpiece—Janko, the Cursed Cat, still scraping neon-pink feathers from his whiskers after yesterday's Feather Fiasco. His glare could've singed a Gromble, but I shot him a wink, my mind already spinning the next prank.
Elder Mara loomed by the well, her Earth Qi rumbling the dirt. "Killyaen, enough foolery," she snapped. "Zenoite minefield's overrun with Rotting Blind Mice. Clear them out.""Me? Opeka's hero, swatting vermin?" I grinned, twirling one of my Zenoite swords, N'Nazmuz's curse dragging my arm with its 30-kilogram weight.
"What's Janko doing? Grooming his whiskers?" Janko growled from a cart, but Mara's stare shut him up. "Move, Killyaen, or I'll bury you in mud." No arguing with that, so I saluted, scheming. A minefield full of mice? Prime canvas for chaos.
At the Black Stone Tavern, Bera leaned over the counter, her apron stretched tight over curves that could spark a riot.
"Off to squash mice, Supreme Elf?" she teased, her fiery grin hotter than a Lava Stone. I slid closer, drinking in her ale-and-smoke scent.
"Squash? I'd rather conquer your spark, Bera. That apron's begging to be torched." She swatted me with a rag, her flush betraying a smirk. Lila strutted in, her tunic clinging to hips that swayed like a quarry breeze.
"Save it, Bera," she purred, tossing her hair. "Killyaen's all talk, no bite." Her taunt bit, but those curves? Pure torment. "Ladies, i said like thousand times before, there's enough Supreme Elf for both," I quipped, dodging Bera's singeing Fire Qi flick. Lila scoffed, her Earth Qi quaking the floor, but her flushed cheeks screamed she wasn't all ice.
Goran waited outside, arms crossed like iron gates. "Focus, boy," he rumbled, tossing me a pouch of Gromble oil and Moonflower sap. "Minefield's crawling with mice—Darkness level 1, but they swarm. Use your Zenoite swords." I hefted the twin blades Marko crafted, their metal gleaming despite the curse slowing my wrists. Training under that 30-kilogram burden had made me strong enough to crack stone, but my stamina burned fast. Goran's voice dropped. "Vuk heard of a wave-carved Zenoite slab in those mines. Might mean something." My amulet pulsed faintly, a nagging tug, but I shrugged it off. Old stones? I'd rather dunk Janko in sap.
The Zenoite minefield sprawled at Opeka's edge, a jagged wasteland where Qi was scarcer than Spirit Stones. I crouched, curse-heavy limbs aching, and scanned the rocks. A chittering sound pricked my ears—then a swarm of Rotting Blind Mice, dozens of eyeless, scrawny vermin, erupted from a crevice, their Darkness Qi a faint buzz. My grin widened. "Showtime, Supreme Elf."
I lunged, Zenoite swords flashing with Wind's Rebuke, slicing through the front rank, five mice bursting into gore. The swarm surged, claws scraping stone, their numbers pressing me back. The curse's weight slowed my swings, my arms burning as I spun, carving arcs that shredded six more. Their chittering grew frenzied, nipping at my boots, and my stamina drained like ale at a festival. A mouse leaped for my throat, but I twisted, slashing it in half mid-air.
"Not my face, you bastards!" I roared, kicking a trio into a rock, their bodies crunching. The swarm tightened, a writhing mass, and I unleashed a double Wind's Rebuke, my blades a blur, cutting down a dozen in a spray of slime. My breaths came ragged, the curse gnawing at my strength, but I laughed, lost in the carnage. A final spin cleaved through the last stragglers, leaving a blood-soaked crater.
My chest heaved, stamina nearly gone, but I stood tall. "Supreme Elf, one; mouse army, zero."A shimmer caught my eye—a Glintmoth, its wings flickering like polished Zenoite. Qi-sensitive and rarer than dragon's gold, it was a prize. My amulet pulsed as I crept closer, the curse dragging my steps. A dab of Moonflower sap froze it mid-flutter, and I snagged it in a vial, tucking it into my belt pouch. "Got you, sparkler," I muttered. No spatial ring yet—Goran wouldn't trust me with that—but this bug could buy ale in Crestmoore.
Janko's voice grated from the path. "Chasing bugs, Supreme Idiot?" He stomped up, feather-free but scowling. "Meow, Cursed Cat," I taunted. "Here to help or just shed?" His fist clenched, and I pounced. A flick of my wrist sprang a Feather-Tickler Trap—Flaevyn feathers doused in Gromble oil—dusting his face in neon fluff. "Meow!" I cackled, sprinting as he roared, the curse slowing my legs as he chased me toward the village.
Back at the tavern, Bera laughed, her curves jiggling as she poured ale. "Reek of mice and Gromble, Killyaen. Heroic, huh?" I slid onto a stool, smirking. "Heroic enough for a taste of your fire, curves?" She rolled her eyes, but her grin lingered. Marko, polishing my Zenoite swords, chuckled. "Careful, lad. Vuk swears he heard of a stone slab with wave carvings in those mines. Old tales, maybe." My amulet pulsed again, a whisper of something bigger, but I drowned it with ale. "Waves? Boring. Janko's my canvas. Next? A Glow-Burst Bomb to light his whiskers."Lila leaned in, her tunic tight enough to stop my heart. "Still obsessed with Janko? Aim higher, Supreme Elf." Her scorn dripped, but her flush betrayed her. I grinned, low and dirty. "Higher's your game, Lila. Wanna wrestle for it?" She stormed off, the floor quaking, and Bera cackled. "Hopeless, Killyaen." Hopeless? Nah.
As I sketched my next prank, Janko's glowing doom was my masterpiece, and Opeka's chaos was my throne.